


Vali

by FelicityGS



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Children, Eating Disorder, Family Feels, Gen, No Incest, Self-Harm, Suicide, TW: Blood, Wolves, bro feels, dad feels, father feels, or is it a wolf, tw: character death, tw: trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/pseuds/FelicityGS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a son who was mentioned once--and sometimes not even that--Vali often felt that was once too often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vali - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been working on in my spare time between things for quite a while now. It starts here, and here is a very good solid opening, I think. The next bit is both considerably longer and still in polishing to mirror sheen mode, so it may be a whee bit of a wait, but I do have the entirety of (at least this story) mapped. Blame the Avengers getting involved.
> 
>  _unelmoija_ is Finish for ‘dreamer’ and ‘lotus eater.’ Lotus eater is a mythology reference; Loki uses it here as a term of endearment, a verbal soothing and sign of love for Vali about Vali’s particular talents.

**Part I**

 

"It was well done, brother! Truly no one has a sharper tongue than you."

Loki chuckled.

"Of course not, Thor." He pushed open the door to his and Sigyn's chambers. "Do you want to see the boys?"

"Should they not already be put to bed?"

Loki rolled his eyes.

"Hilda is with family for a birthing and we both know Sigyn will not have put them to bed yet."

"You should not speak ill of your wife, Loki," Thor scolded. "And listen how quiet it is!"

"Not with you so loud," Loki snapped. Silence settled in the room. Even if all were asleep, there should be some noise: Vali's dream muttering, Narfi's snores, Sigyn gossiping with her handmaidens. He quelled first thought—Sigyn hardly wanted them, she would not take them; they were of no threat to Odin, children of proper political marriage—and strode out into the hall.

There were no guards.

"Thor," he said, looking back. The smile slid from Thor's face at his tone. "Look in on Sigyn."

And for once in his blessed life, Thor did not protest at command.

Loki walked to his sons' rooms; his beloved twins, reality and dream, lion and lamb.

Vali was not in his bed. He told himself this was not unusual, especially not on these evenings where insults and jests laced the air. That Vali would be in Narfi's bed, Narfi with his arms wrapped around his brother, _safe._

But he was not.

They were not in bed, not in these chambers, and he did not need Thor to tell him that Sigyn was not here.

Surely, surely they were both safe. Surely Sigyn had only wished to stroll the gardens late at night and had been _actually responsible_ and taken them with her instead of leaving them unattended, Narfi who would slip out at the slightest sign he could, Vali who would follow his brother rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Loki—"

"I know."

He walked into the hall again.

Surely all was well.

There were no guards in the hall.

XXXXXX

Blood calls blood.

“Where are they?” He kept his voice pitched low, restrained his fury.

“I do not know! If I did, do you think I would be here, searching for them?”

He studied Sigyn, her face drawn tight.

“What did Narfi ask to do?”

It was difficult, keeping his voice so calm. So quiet. Never in his life had he so _hated_ this woman, never had he been so stunned she could share the blood of his boys, that she was so blind to what gift they were.

“He wished to go outside. I sent Auden with them; I am not so absent-minded as you think.” She glared at him.

“I will reserve what _I_ think for when they are found and safe.” He took a breath. “Vali? What was he doing?”

Sigyn remained silent and looked away.

“You don’t know.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Of course not, not Vali, Vali the empath, whose actions and behaviour would speak loudest of the mischief Narfi could hide so well. The son that Sigyn was ashamed of for his emotions, his pacifism, his being all that Asgard found argr.

“Brother!”

Thor pulled his horse to a stop, Loki’s own steed just behind.

“One of the guards says they left the grounds.”

His mouth went dry.

“Vali, was Vali holding Narfi’s hand? Think!” he asked Sigyn, desperate, near pleading.

“He was close to his side. He may have been; Narfi was keeping his hands behind him.”

He leapt onto his horse, grabbing the reins and twisting it about, digging his heels in and setting off at a gallop. Using his legs to guide the beast, he tore off one of his gloves and bit deep into his own hand. Rich tang filled his mouth; he spit it out and called over his shoulder:

“The forest, Thor!”

He left Thor cursing, his loud voice booming over the courtyard and spitting orders, and focused on the blood dripping from his hand, poured energy into it. Not accurate, not nearly enough, but it would have to do—general direction would be better than nothing.

Blood calls to blood.

XXXXXX

“ _No_.”

XXXXXX

His hands shook as he washed them.

Dawn light was beginning to spill through the halls when he finally left his room. Loki had not slept, would not sleep, not for some time yet. There was a thread, distant now, tugging at his blood.

Blood.

He blinked and visions of blood-soaked earth filled his head, small body and black hair, sweet and brave and clever Narfi whose pale green eyes stared bla—

He opened his eyes.

Vali lived. He would find him.

Peaceful Vali, empathic Vali, changed to bird and fled.

“Loki.”

He paused and turned to look at Odin.

“Take Sleipnir. You will need him.”

He blinked; some conflicted surge twined around his heart.

“If I or Heimdal find anything, I shall send Huginn and Muninn to you.”

There were so many things he could say, so many thoughts that pressed into his head sharp and angry.

He nodded.

He did not have time, then, to question this sudden benevolence for one of his children.

“Thank you.”

XXXXXX

When Vali and Narfi were born, it was already clear they were as night and day. Vali firstborn twin, whose initial cry quickly died away, tiny hands clutching for what skin he could find; Narfi secondborn twin, whose cry became laughter, hands reaching and exploring. Mere hours later, Narfi’s eyes were the hue of newly unfurled spring buds and Vali’s so deep a green they looked near black.

Loki remembers first seeing them as he follows the tug on his blood. Remembers how as soon as he could crawl, Narfi would try to roam away from watchful gazes, utterly fearless. Narfi was always always so quiet in his wants, preferring to simply _do_ instead of ask, only emphasized more as he grew older and could walk, could speak with clever tongue and endearing charming smile that was inherited as much as it was learned.

Narfi was so much strength, beloved by the court in a way Loki never quite could manage, so much curiosity, and so much _fight_. Little frightened him, and what did he faced with courage, charm, and guile, aware somehow what danger he was in and always always rising to meet it.

A good liar, too, though rare was the lie that Loki missed.

Always before, though, that strength had blended with some measure of caution when Vali trailed in his wake, caution usually ignored as too girlish become proper where his brother’s safety was concerned.

Loki does not know what had inspired Narfi to go to the forest. Does not know if it was his own stern reprimand to not, if it was listening to Vali's whispers of glens where one could find deer so calm as to come to one’s hand, or if it was simply Narfi being Narfi: fearless, bold, and ever ever curious.

Only knows that Narfi is dead, blood spilled and body broken in defense of his brother. His heart aches at this, this _failure_ to keep safe. He should not have left them in Sigyn’s care alone, should have begged off the evening’s festivities; he _knew_ that Sigyn would not look after them so well as their nursemaid Hilda, that Sigyn would pay no mind to all the subtle signs that Vali’s posture would hold for whatever mischief Narfi planned.

He rides and he thinks and he remembers and sometimes, when the wound on his hand begins to clot, he will reopen it and bleed anew, magic swirling.

Searching.

XXXXXX

He is close now, closer than he has been since that first night. It lights a desperate hope in him, some emotion not darkness and near too painful after two months of searching. Sleipnir is tireless beneath him and never has he been so grateful for this jest he played, this idle trick done while young and bored for no more than the scandal it would cause at court.

Sleipnir is not Loki’s blood, but he is filled with Loki’s magic, and the stallion responds to Loki’s hope in kind, surging forward.

Blood calls to blood.

They crash into a clearing and his blood _aches_ at the closeness; he near goes blind and deaf for its swell. _Here!_ it sings, _here here here!_ and he tugs sharp at Sleipnir's reins, holds tight as the stallion rears and spins around in a tight circle. Loki searches over the clearing, warmth beginning to seep into his bones.

But Vali is not here.

He dismounts and makes himself _look_ at the clearing. Tries to grasp his emotions to calmness or something like it; he must not spook Vali, Vali lost two months, not now. Not so close.

Knee-high white poppies rustle slightly, dappled by sunlight. A pile of rocks sits near the center, old and weathered, covered in moss. Things are quiet but for the heavy breathing of Sleipnir, the own pounding of his heart, the whisper of the breeze.

He lets go of Sleipnir and wades through the flowers, circles around the stones. They do not lie so that any could crawl between or under them. He turns to look at the rest of the clearing. Vali is _here_ , his magic says so; he trusts it, trusts blood and bond, and does not allow hope to fade. Does not allow the distress that wants to rise back up come so easy.

He closes his eyes, leans his head back, and lets himself fall to stillness. Imagines deep and dark ocean shores, the repetitive noise of wave on sand, steady and certain—an old exercise, from when he first taught Vali to focus his own mind and one Loki returns to now, when he most needs calmness, peace. Anything else will only frighten his son who _must_ be here.

There is a flutter of wings.

Loki opens his eyes slowly; perched on one of the rocks is a small bird, black but for a splash of yellow at its crown. It tilts its head at him, hops about uncertainly on the rock, and looses an unsteady warble. Around it hums magic, and its shadow...

The bird’s wings spread at the surge of emotion and Loki forces himself calm, smothers heady rush of _something_ , and takes a slow step forward. Holding out the hand still wet and crimson, he croons softly to the mynah bird, an old lullaby once used to hush a babe sensitive to slightest ill, and edges further forward. The bird warbles again, dances back and forward, feathers ruffled and so very uncertain. Gently, gently, so gently it would not disturb even dust, he tugs the thread that binds blood to blood.

Freezes.

The bird looks ready to spring to flight, nervous warble dying off. Loki closes his eyes, thinks of oceans and shores, thinks of repeating crash of wave, all of it, with his whole self, dark and quiet, until he is nothing but serenity.

Small claws prick the flat of his hand and he opens his eyes to gaze at the tiny little bird perched there, staring up at him with liquid green eyes deep as dream, so dark they are nearly black.

Magic tears through him, an exhausting flood of light that whips through his every nerve and swirls around the bird. Emotion rips through flimsy erected dam and leaves him weeping, clutching tight the confused and frightened little boy to his chest, bird no more, but Vali, Vali, _his_ Vali, his darling little empath, dreamer and lamb and dove, child of his heart, emotion to Narfi’s spirit, wisdom to Narfi’s intelligence, ocean night to Narfi’s mountain day. He sinks to the ground, joy tight band around his chest, and weeps into auburn hair as Vali’s panic eases and then his little boy is clinging back, caught in Loki’s own emotions, staring up with confused black-green eyes.

“ _Unelmoija_ , lamb, Vali, oh Vali Vali Vali, sweet darling _unelmoija_ ,” he chants and chants and chants, rocking back and forth, pressing kisses to soft curls. He pulls back, touches Vali’s face and Vali looks back at him dazed, face streaked with sympathetic tears; Loki closes his eyes, kisses his son’s forehead, then pulls him back close. Two months a bird, his Vali, and he _knows_ that even a day shape-shifted can be devastating to so young a mind, to so young a sorcerer, but it does not matter, will not matter. He will out-wait time if he must; person-hood can be relearned and he will be as patient as he must for that, do everything he can to aid. “Heart of my heart, _unelmoija_ , love, Vali, my _son_ ,” and he chokes on the word, that it is not ‘sons’ and thinks fiercely that he will not let any touch _this_ son, his _last_ son, child he has managed to keep, child he has managed to find once more and child he shall _not_ lose again. That he will not fail, not like this, not again, not if he can help it, and he kisses and hums soft song, cradles and rocks little Vali against his chest, until Vali’s eyes close and he drifts to dream, hands still tangled in Loki’s clothes.

XXXXXX

They do not go back to Asgard.

He dresses Vali and, when Vali’s hands tangle in Loki’s cloak, he pulls it off and wraps it about him. Loki keeps one arm wrapped around his son as they ride and he debates where they shall go.

Because they are not going back to Asgard.

Perhaps they will one day, but not now. Now when Vali flinches at slightest twitch of emotion, when he stares at the world around him in confusion, his sorcery sensitive and wild, his mind still caught in the form he wore. Asgard would only cause more harm with its attentions.

Vali does not speak as they ride, but he listens sometimes. He has always listened, used speech to ground himself when his mind was distracted, so Loki talks as they ride. About nothing, about what they pass, points out landmarks, explains plants and their many properties, until his voice grows hoarse, day turns to night, and Vali sleeps against him. He runs a hand through Vali's hair and he thinks.

Vanaheim, he thinks. Freyr owes him favour and what little he remembers of children there suggests that Vali will not stick out so sorely.

He clucks his tongue at Sleipnir, gathers magic around them, and they vanish between realms.

XXXXXX

Childhood on Asgard suited Narfi perfectly. It rewarded his daring, praised his wit, swooned at his smile, and sighed relief he had not a drop of magic in him.

Not all things suit all children.

Vali was always a clingy babe, crying late and often for what seemed no reason but always hushing as soon as he was picked up. His eyes would stare in solemn wonder, hands reaching for and tangling in clothing, hair, always seeking contact. When he grew older he was most satisfied by toddling at an adult's side and ever questioning why. He did not take to the mock fights and chases other boys did, instead slipping away to listen to how things were created--yarn and thread and dye, clays and glazes and pottery, drink and bread and meal.

Loki noticed. How could he not?

When he pulled Vali aside to speak with him, Vali had only frowned and looked down, mumbled how he did not want to fight, did not _like_ fighting, and why did they need fight at all? Loki had little to say to that; his sons would not begin formal training for a season yet and he took the time to think.

If Vali did not wish to fight, then he would not. Asgard would never lack for warriors; what was it less one prince’s blade?

He only worried what rumour would whisper, what other children would do, how it would affect Vali. He knew more than enough of how words did not need to be spoken to be heard; had heard enough of them himself growing up with his interest and use of magic, and _he_ had never foregone use of blade. Not that Vali used magic; neither twin had shown talent and he was beginning to suspect the gift had passed them over as they approached their fifth year.

Shortly after their sixth birthday, Narfi came to find Loki in the middle of going over treatises, pale and frightened in a way Loki had never seen him prior. Vali was curled in Narfi’s bed, caught between drunken laughter and broken sob, eyes wholly liquid dark green and seeing elseways. Magic twisted about him, left blue swirls and patterns in his flesh, but it did not seek change and fire as Loki’s had; no, no it dreamed and sought and _felt_. Empathic, sympathetic magic, so lacking in control and refinement that the whole of Asgard’s emotions were crowding Vali’s head, mind caught in a thousand dreams not his own.

Always there and Loki had simply not seen it. In how he loved people, how he disliked combat, how his interests were in things that brought joy and creation.

How he was always, _always_ mirror to Narfi.

And if Loki had been going to force Vali into combat training, he would not. Not after that day. That day that stretched to weeks, of rushed wards and then careful coaxing.

Asgard whispered, then; never anything that anyone could pin to one person, oh no, never that. But how it whispered of the prince born the wrong sex. Rumour that swirled every which way, because what _son_ would ever inherit a magic given to women for healing, such a weak magic that had no use _real_ use to a man, if not because his father were too womanly? Loki did not care a whit for whispers of his own faults; he had heard enough of them for lifetimes. But Vali could feel the disapproval, the half-hid disgust, the pity. Could sense Sigyn’s disappointment in him, and grew more shy for it, more quiet, tended himself to shadows and out of sight, so perhaps people might not speak so of him, until sometimes, sometimes, Asgard would forget him.

Loki despised it.

Not Vali, no, never Vali; when Sigyn withdrew, he brought Vali with him when he would work alone in his study, explain politics and treaties, set him to reading and studying. When he sat down to speak with Narfi about how it seemed he paid more attention to Vali, Narfi had just shrugged it off and flashed his brilliant smile, already understanding what Loki would say. Loki said it anyway for he would not let resentment build--Narfi was his child after all.

Vali had been doing so well. Things had not been perfect, no, but Vali had been given to laughter more often, lost a little of his shyness, been more willing to trail in Narfi’s wake instead of stay hidden in his room. Had learned, a little, how to ignore the unspoken disgust.

XXXXXX

“Father?”

Loki starts awake, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at Vali. He has put on a little weight again, speaks sometimes, and most days he does not drift so that Loki worries he might not return. Vanaheim is not perfect, either, but it has done well by them both. Certainly Vali has relearned a little of being person and not bird.

“Yes?”

“Where is Narfi?”

Vali’s eyes are wide and serious, his hands worrying at the edge of his shirt, mouth set in a distressed line. Loki swallows and ignores the dark twisting thing in his chest.

“He is outside, Vali. It is not quite noon yet, he has practice in the mornings.” The lie is sour on his tongue, clumsy, and anyone else would see it for what it is. Vali only regards him, hands catching hold of stray thread and tugging it loose.

“He is not gone near the forest, is he? He shouldn’t go near the forest.”

“No, Vali. You will see him at midday meal.” That this lie is better than telling the truth does not make it any easier to tell.

Vali nods and looks away, fingering the the thread he has been tugging.

"May I go to go to the stables to see Sleipnir, Father?"

“Of course.” He reaches over the desk to a bowl filled with fruit and hands Vali a pear. He ruffles his son’s hair, smiling.

If it is bittersweet, Vali does not take note. He smiles, brief flash of brilliance, some echo of his brother’s smile, then leaves. Loki watches him, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

When midday comes, Vali does not ask about Narfi. Does not remember asking, does not remember Narfi existed; mind erased all signs of his brother but for fear of forest and wolf, and two times of day: just before noon, when Narfi must have first mentioned his idea to Vali, and just past sunset, when they slipped out.

When Vali asks after Narfi just past sunset, Loki lies. Vali believes him, settles by his father to read a story, and when Loki puts him to bed, Vali does not note lack of his brother, only yawns before falling asleep.

Loki does not leave his side, not for another hour. He dreads it, the slow drip of time that always moves a little too quickly, reminder after reminder. Vali wakes screaming exactly fifty-two minutes later, reaching for his magic and trying to change shape; Loki grabs him, holds him close, murmurs to him and soothes his magic.

It takes exactly seven minutes from when Vali first wakes for him to stop screaming and struggling, drifting back to sleep as if nothing has happened.

He does not remember in the morning, only tumbles out of bed smiling and demanding breakfast, laughter delighted and high birdsong in the halls, asking Loki when they will return to Asgard for he wants to see his grandmother, wants to tell his uncle of his adventures in Vanaheim, wants to have his paints and draw all the sights they have seen. Loki smiles, tells him soon enough, and then Vali is distracted by some new curiosity, racing down the hallways, so close to how he once was.

XXXXXX

Asgard is not sure what to make of them when they return. It has been near a year since Loki left; he is surprised by how little seems to have changed and yet how much at the same time.

Despite wanting to see them, Vali stays close to Loki, eyes watching the rest of the family thoughtfully. He may have smothered all memory of his brother, but he has not forgotten all the time before and how he was treated then. It makes Loki a little viciously proud, that even his most trusting son is not so stupidly blinded to think these people will continue in their smiles and welcome over the long term.

Only appears weak enough he does not give them cause to take him away.

He tells them to not mention Narfi, though he does not tell them why.

XXXXXX

Vali stops having nightmares.

Vali stops asking Loki where Narfi is.

And for months, that is it; silence, the occasional flicker of a frown or restless toss in his sleep. Vali’s smiles are reserved, and he never remarks upon the second set of rooms by his own.

Nearly a year after they’ve returned to Asgard, Loki finds Vali running a hand along the wall as he walks, eyes distant, trails of frost spidering from his fingertips. He asks Loki about the halls’ memory of a dark haired boy who looks like Loki, only with pale green eyes and no magic. Loki hesitates to tell him, if only because he does not know what Vali’s mind has done with Narfi and how much it will stir.

Vali keeps asking though, taken on some of his dead twin’s insistence, until finally Loki tells him about Narfi. Though he is nearly adolescent, Loki sits him in his lap as he talks.

“He was very important to you,” Vali says solemnly, eyes dark as dream. He brushes away a tear that escapes despite Loki’s best effort, examining it for a moment before he licks it off. Loki can feel shift of magic around Vali, watches the pale blue patterns that whorl over his son’s skin as he tastes Loki’s emotions. Loki does not understand Vali’s magic, how some days Vali does little more than drift in and augment his every sense with it and how other days it wanes and Vali is entirely physically in the present.

“Yes,” Loki says simply. Vali looks back up at him seriously.

“What was his name?”

“Narfi.”

Vali’s face flickers oh so briefly, then stills once more. The whites of his eyes vanish, drowned in the black-green of his irises.

“Blood,” Vali whispers. His mouth parts, a shudder running through his entire body and hands clenching unconsciously. Loki swallows as the temperature around them plummets, drawing his own magic in case he needs use it.

Then Vali’s eyes return to normal, whorls of blue energy vanishing, the air warming once more. Magic lingers beneath the skin, smelling of ice and pine. Loki searches Vali’s face, but Vali only looks tired.

“I do not want to talk about him anymore,” Vali says, resting his head against Loki’s collarbone. Loki wraps his arms around Vali, stroking his hair.

“You were the one who asked,” Loki replies, meaning to tease but he cannot get rid of heartache and it comes out flat.

Vali snorts against Loki, nuzzling in closer. Loki’s hair stands on end for a moment; he feels as if some weight he was unaware of is gone, letting him breathe easier and perhaps laugh again.

“Stop that,” he tells Vali.

Vali smiles into his neck.


	2. Narfi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus do we see why this is three chapters long--I had this here, ready. A planned intermission to help ease the time between part 1 and part 2. 
> 
> Let's take a look at Narfi, before all that nasty business in part 1 occurred, shall we?

"Take it back."

"No," Faraldr says, smug.

Narfi punches him. It's not _his_ fault--Faraldr deserves it. The other boy does not expect it and falls in the dirt, and Narfi follows after him.

"Take it _back_ ," he snarls, gripping a fist full of hair.

" _No_ , it's true he's a--"

This time, when he punches him, it breaks Faraldr's nose.

XXXXXX

Vali touches his cheek and Narfi swats his hand away. He knows how Vali is, how Vali will try to smear some sickly smelling thing on it to make it heal faster, likely got from one of Nana’s gardens, and he doesn’t want that. He’s proud of this one, and besides, Faraldr is worse off than he.

Vali frowns at him before leaning against him; Narfi sighs and leans back against his twin.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” Vali says, resting part of his book in Narfi’s lap. Narfi steadies it with his other hand.

“There’s no pictures,” he complains and wobbles on the tree branch as Vali elbows him.

“Once upon a time,” Vali starts to read and Narfi laughs, elbowing his brother back.

XXXXXX

The thing about causing a problem is even if he knows he _will_ be in trouble, sometimes it takes _days_ before Father says anything. Vali tells him it’s because Father knows it makes him feel more guilty, and Narfi tells Vali that’s not true at all. Vali will shrug, just like Narfi always shrugs when Vali lies to him.

The _worst_ thing is that Father always, _always_ asks to speak with him, like Narfi can say no, like there’s a _choice_.

Vali told him once that there _is_ a choice, but Narfi thinks that this is like enjoying a good fight: something Vali will never understand. Vali is the _good_ son, after all, the one who is well-behaved, of course _he_ has a choice.

Sometimes, he thinks on telling Father no, but then he thinks about how he’s never seen Father angry and decides it best not to risk it.

“Narfi,” Father says, looking up at him with a smile, and Narfi tries to not to shuffle his feet or twist his hands or look away. Princes are supposed to be collected, after all--he tries to act like Vali, though it doesn’t much suit him.

“Father,” Narfi says. “You asked for me?”

“Ah, yes.” Narfi manages to keep from rolling his eyes. No need to make this any worse than it will be. He thinks Father might know, though, from how his smile widens slightly before he goes back to whatever... _thing_ he’s looking at. Probably something dry and wordy and twisted up in logic Narfi can’t follow. Nothing _interesting_. “I have heard that Faraldr Fadhisson lost a fight. You two play together. How is he?”

“I don’t know,” Narfi says though he _does_ know how Faraldr is and he hopes that the other boy doesn’t forget the sting anytime soon. “I’m not speaking to him.”

“Oh?” Father doesn’t even look up.

Narfi catches himself before he shifts on his feet and tilts his chin up some.

“No,” he says instead of _he deserved it_.

“Fadhir is saying that you were the one to best him,” Father says, as idly as he might comment on the weather.

“I might’ve,” Narfi says. He sees one of Father’s eyebrows raise slightly, and quickly corrects, “I might have.”

“You broke his arm and nose.”

Narfi sets his shoulders back though Father is still not looking at him. Only an idiot would think Father isn’t paying attention, and Narfi might not be so clever as Vali but he’s not an idiot.

“I might have,” Narfi repeats.

That does get him a brief glance, but it’s not a lie and Father doesn’t pursue it.

“Faraldr is saying you started it to any that will listen.”

Narfi keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t ask how Father knows because he and Vali both secretly agree that Father knows _everything_.

“He can describe in detail how you attacked him when his back was turned and caught him unawares.” Father sets aside whatever he’s been looking at, reaching for something else on his desk. “That is not particularly honourable, Narfi.”

“I understand, Father,” Narfi says, because he’d rather this be over than Father know what Faraldr _said_ about Vali. It aches to have Father believing Faraldr’s lie, but he can keep his tongue still for that.

“Come here.”

Narfi moves over to where Father is sitting. Narfi keeps his face as blank as he can as he looks at Father, who has turned and now gives all his attention to Narfi.

“Why _did_ you break his arm?” Father asks, honest curiosity in his voice.

“Because,” Narfi says stubbornly. It’s difficult to stay still when Father leans forward, to keep from stepping back, but he does. He doesn’t look away either. One of Father’s eyebrows arch.

“Narfi,” he says again, and his voice drops all idle disinterest, “why did you attack Faraldr?”

Narfi wants to tell him he didn’t _attack_ Faraldr, that Faraldr was the one who started it, but _that_ isn’t very prince-like and turns into the he-said-she-said that Father so dislikes.

“Because,” Narfi repeats, and he catches the faint twitch on Father’s face. Though he _knows_ it’ll only make things worse, he adds, “He asked for it.”

“Just as you are asking to make amends and help him until his arm is well, then?”

Narfi tries not to scowl at the thought.

“Yes,” he says. With a sinking feeling he realizes he’s surprised Father with the answer, that he should have gone for anger, and he wishes Vali were here. Vali is always so _good_ at reading Father and knowing what to do to navigate these things.

Father leans back again, thoughtful. Narfi cannot help shifting on his feet now. He _knows_ that Father doesn’t read emotion, not like Vali does, and so Father won’t be able to pluck the answer from his twisted up feelings, but he still _hates_ when Father looks at him that way.

“Do I need to ask Vali?” Father finally asks.

“No!” Narfi blurts before he can stop himself, then snaps his mouth shut and stares at Father. Vali doesn’t know, Vali _shouldn’t_ know, and if Father calls Vali in then _Vali_ will figure out that it had something to do with him and say as much because Vali _hates_ arguing.

Except _he’s_ just said as much. If he’d only told Father no like normal it wouldn’t have mattered, but he panicked.

“Is that so?” Father asks. “I’m sure it won’t take but a few minutes--”

“You wouldn’t,” Narfi says. “Vali wasn’t there, he doesn’t know.”

“Now I wouldn’t get Vali?”

Narfi bites his lip, chewing it between his teeth. Father wouldn’t call Vali in, would he? Father’s made it more than clear over the years he hates using one to learn about the other, and it’s not like he ever has before--not unless they were both involved, but that’s _different_ than this. It’s not fair to Vali, to drag him in when he’s not involved, not following Narfi on his adventures.

“Hilda,” Father calls, raising his voice just so, and Narfi can feel the enchantment shiver the air.

He _will_ , though, he will, and Narfi’s heart feels caught in his throat.

“ _Faraldr called Vali argr!_ ”

Silence.

Narfi desperately looks anywhere except at Father, because he did not want to tell Father this, did not want him to know. He’d gladly do near anything to keep it from him, but Father was going to call Vali, and it’s not about want with Vali--he _needs_ to keep it from Vali.

A few minutes later, and Hilda arrives, a polite “Highness” on her lips and Narfi looks at Father pleadingly.

Father’s face is entirely closed off, but there’s something in his eyes that reminds him of the only time he’d ever seen Vali angry, dark and slow churning and _ice_.

“Let Vali know Narfi won’t be joining us for dinner this evening,” Father says and Narfi nearly sags in relief.

Hilda leaves, and Narfi waits for Father to say more, to ask a question, _something_. Except he doesn’t. He is quiet and still and blank, and that is more frightening than near anything Narfi knows.

“We were playing,” Narfi says, looking down again. “Play fighting. And I might have said he hits like a girl, and he might have said that least he hits harder than Vali and we started arguing and I _know_ you told me that I shouldn’t fight for Vali all the time, that Vali has to be able to stand up for himself, but Vali wasn’t there and then he said _that_ , and I _know_ I shouldn’t fight for Vali, but he wasn’t _there_ and he wouldn’t've anyway, you _know_ Vali wouldn’t've, and _someone_ needed to, so I hit him and I told him to take it back and when he didn’t I hit him harder.”

He looks up. The lines of Father’s face have eased a little, some of whatever dark thing that was in his eyes banked, and, encouraged, he goes on.

“Just don’t tell Vali? He can’t know. I don’t want him to--” Narfi swallows, biting his lip again. “I don’t want him to be like before, he actually goes out sometimes now and if he knew what Faraldr said he might--”

“Narfi,” Father says, his voice gentle, “come here.”

Father pulls him into his lap, and Narfi doesn’t say _I’m not Vali_ though he wants to. Besides, he’ll admit that it’s nice to be held by Father right now, after being so _worried_ , even if he won’t say so.

“I promise you,” Father says, “I will not tell Vali.”

Father _always_ keeps his promises; Narfi lets out a breath, relief washing through him.

“I am proud you defended Vali.” Father squeezes his arms reassuringly. “I am. However, I still need to do something to punish you. Your silence on this has done you few favours.”

“I understand. But do I really have to help Faraldr?”

Father smiles at him, a sly thing that reminds him of foxes and tricks played on uncle Thor with Father’s aid.

“Who said he’s going to enjoy it?”

XXXXXX

“Told you so.”

Narfi stirs, rolling over to glare at where his twin is standing at the edge of the bed, book clutched to his chest.

“You always say that,” Narfi complains.

Vali shrugs, shifting on his feet, not looking at him.

“What time is it anyway?”

“Father’s asleep.”

“Late then.”

Vali stills to stare at a particularly dark corner of Narfi’s room. So he didn’t just come to tell Narfi _told you so_ , though it’s a good excuse. Narfi wishes Vali didn’t think he _needs_ excuses.

“Come on,” Narfi says, reaching out and grabbing hold of Vali to tug him into the bed. Vali jumps, looking at him with wide eyes still half-way clouded by dream, and Narfi feels _scared-dark-hot_ jolt up his arm as his heart begins to race.

“I’m not sleeping here,” Vali protests, though as soon as Narfi has tugged he’s nearly bolted into the bed next to Narfi, sitting up against the headboard and pillows.

“No,” Narfi agrees. “But you _are_ going to read to me since you woke me up.”

Vali nods, eyes searching over the room again, and Narfi elbows him lightly.

“You want me to put on a light, or are you going to use seidr?” he asks to pull Vali’s attention back. Vali edges closer to him, opening the book to rest it on his lap.

“I’ll use seidr,” Vali says, a dim blue-green glow flickering to life at the top spine of the book. Enough to see by, but not much more.

“Once upon a time,” Vali starts, his voice still shakey. Narfi rests an arm over Vali’s shoulders and leans his weight into his twin.

When Vali’s voice is calm again and his words begin to flag, Narfi pulls the book half in his lap and takes over reading until Vali is finally asleep against him. He reads a little past that, lets his voice get quieter, and once he is sure Vali won’t start awake, he closes the book and slides down, curling into Vali’s side, an arm thrown over him, and falls back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for Narfi. 
> 
> Part 2 will, if things continue at present rate, be ready to go within the next two weeks.


	3. Thor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Wow. So for all six of you waiting, we have an update. Despite all attempts otherwise, the next chapter I had planned did not want to work; the good news is we have several smaller segments of this relationship that got written while trying to pin down the details. 
> 
> This is post- _Thor_ , a little less than a day after the fight on the Bifrost; I'm sure more than me was curious what would lead to Loki to let go when we introduce Vali to the mix. Here we are.
> 
> **Warnings** : suicide, self-loathing, self-harm, eating disorder

It is Hilda who finds Thor--bold and kind Hilda, who Thor knows is near family in Loki’s household.

Thor is not sure if she knew he was in Loki’s study, or if she only stumbled upon him in search of something else. (Not someone else--not anymore. There is no one else here.)

“My prince,” she says, polite, reserved, but there is grief in her eyes, at the edges of her mouth. Thor has seen and known Hilda for nearly as long as the twi--as Vali.

(He wonders if there is a curse, unspoken and unknown--Hela and Jormungandr, Fenrir and Narfi, and now Loki.)

“Hilda,” he greets. He looks over the study--left the way Loki would have, pages still scattered and opened. A trade agreement--unsigned, paper pinned to it with a scrawl of notes. A book left open, a knife half-cleaned. It looks, he thinks, as if Loki will simply walk in, demanding to know what they are doing here, threatening to cut off Thor's hair and banish Hilda for the thousandth time.

(He pretends he can hear his brother’s footsteps, but Loki does not come in.)

“Where,” Thor asks, “is my nephew?”

XXX

Vali is fled to the highest point of Asgard, a tower long forgotten by most and covered in dust. There are footprints--Hilda’s, both going and returning, and Vali’s. Thor follows them, and then, finally, reaches the topmost room.

(Loki explained, once, that Vali takes comfort in heights, part of him still seeing it as escape, a remnant from when he was a bird and the open sky meant safety.)

Thor pauses, clears his throat, is _loud_ though all he wishes is silence. Vali does not look up, only somehow curls tighter into himself.

He tries, though it is difficult, to push his grief away, to be calm, because Loki has-- _had_ told him that, too, before he approaches his nephew. He crouches before him, but Vali will not look at him, tucked tightly in the corner.

“Vali,” Thor says.

Vali flinches, eyes slipping up to him for a brief second.

Guilt. There is guilt in Vali’s eyes, written on his face so clearly even Thor cannot miss it, twisted up in sorrow and grief.

“Oh, Vali,” Thor says, reaching out and clasping the back of Vali’s neck. “Vali, no. No--” and he stops, throat closing off. Words deserted, he instead sits, pulling Vali into his arms, Vali unresisting. As he does, he sees blood on Vali’s hand, staining his clothes.

( _“The forest, Thor!” and Loki, biting deep into his hand, blood spilling rich and red, and the fire touched smell of Loki’s magic on the air_.)

It is not difficult to examine Vali’s hand; Vali is limp against him, soundless. A bite mark, where Vali’s teeth broke the skin, and he tips Vali’s head back to find blood at his lips. Vali’s eyes slip away, the only resistance he has left in him.

(A... a spell. Unsteady, unskilled, raw power and crafted by a man whose magic ran not in blood but in the physical and who had little skill with magic tied to people, but who was desperate to ensure that he would not lose the twins as he had lost his children before. Thor remembers that, too, remembers asking Loki of it after he returned with Vali, and he remembers knowing better than to comment.)

“I can’t--” Vali starts, and then he stops, eyes darting up to Thor’s. “I--” Vali stops again. “Papa, ca--”

Vali sobs, choking, and Thor pulls him close, stroking his nephew’s hair as Vali cries and shakes, pressing his face into his hair. Vali’s skin is chill, the air cool, and he closes his eyes and allows himself, for a moment, to pretend that it is Vali’s emotion that causes him to weep.

_Emotion_.

He opens his eyes again, breath stolen.

( _“But what does it_ mean _?” Thor asks._

_“He senses emotion. Do you not know what it is to have empathy, you oaf?” Loki snarls, pacing. “Did you get it?”_

_“Yes,” Thor says, trying to restrain his anger, and he offers Loki a single feather--black and shimmering. There is, he knows, a particularly unhappy raven that will whisper spite in Father’s ear (later), but Thor does not care._

_Loki stops, plucking the feather from his hand, eyes lighting up, fingertips running along the vane._

_“It is like,” Loki says, and Thor knows it is all the thanks he will get while Loki yet helps Vali, “when my magic first came in.”_

_Thor well remembers that, and he remembers being frightened because he could not save Loki from himself, Loki alternating between screaming and sobbing and occasionally simply trying to lay everything to ash, suddenly feeling the lines and rules that allow the realms to turn on his skin, in his every movement no matter how slight._

_He looks up at Loki, who has stilled for a moment to watch him._

_“It is like that,” Loki says, “only dreams and passions and terrors--the strongest first, the rest after.” Loki looks away, swallowing, and Thor does not need Loki to tell him that he does not know what he is doing, that his own magic is so different from his son’s that he is afraid that Vali will go mad from glimpses of passions he does not understand._

_“If you need anything, I am here,” Thor says._ )

He remembers Loki’s face before he let go of Gungnir, and he pulls Vali tighter to himself, unable to choke back his own sobs, rocking his nephew in his arms, because he _knows_. He saw, and he hurts, but Vali, oh Vali.

Vali _felt_ \--Thor and Loki and more besides.

XXX

Uncle Thor doesn’t know, Vali thinks. That is why he does not treat Vali like what he is, that is why he is kind and gentle, why he argues with Mother the way Father doe--did.

( _Did_. Because Father is gone, because he cannot _feel_ him the way Father showed him, with blood, though sometimes he tries, just in case, because maybe--)

No one treats him like what he is.

He should tell them, Vali thinks, but he does not.

That would mean _speaking_.

(Miserably, he thinks this is what Father meant, to be careful, to take care, to not speak unless he could be sure it was his own emotion, his own thought, to consider. Father said, and he should have _listened_ and _this is his fault_.)

(There is a reason for all of Father’s rules.)

(Was. Was a reason.)

XXX

He comes back to find Vali dozing on the window seat. There is a book in his lap, and his face is unhappy even in his sleep. Thor sits down and for a little while he watches. He could, he knows, try to carry Vali to bed, but Vali would wake as he always does.

“Vali,” Thor says, and Vali starts awake. He shrinks beneath Thor’s gaze, a hand moving behind himself. “Come here.”

Eventually Vali stands from where he was curled by the window, leaving his book on the seat, to stand before Thor. He keeps his hands behind himself, and he does not meet Thor’s eye.

“Let me see,” Thor says.

There is blood, mostly dried, that has trickled across Vali’s palm and the fingertips of his other hand, and when Thor pushes Vali’s sleeve up, there are cuts, deep and torn. Nails, today then, not measured and planned and intended not to hurt.

It is less often ritual and more often hurt.

Thor cleans Vali’s hands and forearm, and as he bandages the cuts, he talks. First, he tells Vali he loves him, and secondly, he tells Vali that he does not need to do this to himself. These two he always says, before anything else, as calmly as he is able while he tends whatever mark Vali has left on himself.

(He suspects it is the only reason Vali allows this.)

Then, once he has told these truths to Vali, he talks about other things. Sometimes stories he has heard, sometimes things he has done (not much there, but then he does not wish to discuss politics with Vali), sometimes about Midgard. Vali listens--slight head tilt towards his voice, slowly relaxing from tenseness and flinching--but he does not speak.

Has not spoken a word for nearly five months now.

At first, sometimes he would open his mouth, as if there were words there, ready, before choking off, curling into himself, fear and worry and guilt in his eyes. Eir tells Thor there is nothing she can do--that Vali does not wish to speak.

“Go to bed, little one,” Thor says, once the last bandage is secured in place. He ruffles Vali’s hair.

Vali’s smile is weak and only at the edges of his lips, but it is more than what it once was, and he nods before giving Thor a hug.

“Did he eat today?” he asks Hilda, after Vali is asleep in his bed.

“More than yesterday,” she says.

Thor nods, relieved, because yesterday Vali did not eat at all. He will need to thank Volstagg again for suggesting to avoid drawing attention to food and meal.

(Sometimes, he suspects Vali thinks he is at fault for his father’s death, as if he pushed Loki off the Bifrost himself.)

XXX

More often, there is food left out.

He tries, very hard, not to eat it.

(Food is for warriors and families and _good_ people. Not people like him, not kinsl-- not people like him.)

But sometimes he is so very hungry, so that he is dizzy and dazed and cannot think--not even enough to keep control so no one else’s emotions will trickle in--and then he will eat. Not much, only enough so he has a little control, only enough no one will notice and comment upon it. He _cannot_ risk losing control again, not risk _hurting_ more people, especially not Hilda and Uncle Thor who are so kind to him despite everything.

The point of not speaking is to avoid ever drowning another in emotion again.

( _"Vali? What are you--"_

_(Monster-loathing-hate-cold and cold and colder-lost-lost-what am I-)_

_"--doing here,_ unelmoija _? Is everything alright?"_

_He can't breathe (monster-blue-curse-cursed-hate-hate-don't deserve), he is drowning and smothered and he does not know what is happening, it is like what he sensed minutes ago only it is_ worse _and it is_ Father _who feels this (self-loathing-bile-fury) way and he is safe here (what if I hurt him?) isn't he except--_

_"Vali?" Father asks, his face expressionless, a hand reaching out to touch._

_(Monster-loathing-dangerous-anger and hate and fury and_ hurt _\--_

_"Don't!" he shrieks, jerking back, terrified (but_ why _he is never scared of Father he doesn't understand). He falls, and he stares up at Father, Father whose face is nothing but ache and hurt. "I--Father--I'm sorry, I felt something and I'm scared--"_

_He is drowning, and there is not enough calm in the world to keep him afloat._

_Father forces a smile (heartbroken), crouching before him but he does not touch (_ good _and he feels ill at the thought, where did it come from it is not his)._

_"It will be alright,_ unelmoija _," Father says._

_"Father, what's happened, what's wrong?" and he reaches out, to show Father it is alright, to comfort--he can do that, he can, just a little. A little frost and blue touch his fingertips and he already feels more sure, more_ right _\--_

_"No," Father says, grabbing hold of his wrist before he can touch, eyes focused on the chill that stains Vali's fingers blue--_

_(Disgust loathing why are you touching him you will hurt him half-monster lied to and liar how will you tell him what he is how will you tell him that he is half-beast this is why you could not keep his brother safe why Fenrir and Jormungandr and unending failure_

_"--failure, let me go, you're only hurting me, you don't--"_

_Speaking, Vali realizes distantly, he is speaking but they are not_ his _words, they are not, and he tries to tell Father only he cannot, cannot stop saying these horrible things and Father is letting go, recoiling, and finally, finally, he manages to silence himself, biting his tongue and covering his mouth with both hands, tears spilling down his face as he stares at Father._

_Father does not say anything._

_(Does not need to--Vali thinks he might suffocate under the weight of Father's sorrow and despair.)_

_"Hilda," Father finally says. "Go and stay with Hilda." Father's smile is broken (does not ease the despair, only makes it_ worse _). "I will make things right,_ unelmoija _."_

_"Father," Vali cries, but Father is already gone.)_

XXX

Thor thinks.

(He will be first to admit he was not much given to thought before.)

He attends to meetings, listens to people, and involves himself in all the matters that once Loki did (matters befitting a prince, once easily passed off and ignored in favour of adventure and hunts). Though they are not organized by any system he can find, Loki’s notes are meticulous and often full of things Thor never kn--never cared to know. They are a little, he thinks, like Loki whispering in his ear: _ah, that is Lady Oddleif Oddadottir--not very clever, but loyal and willing to publicly throw her support behind decisions; Spjall Skjalsson is involved with this trade committee--a snake, pay extra attention to the wording of anything he touches; Bausi Belason’s boy Bisi plays with Vali from time to time, take care to show his family favour--the court will figure it out_.

A treasure trove of information, and Thor suspects that there is not a soul in the palace Loki was not aware of.

All of this work, and for what? A court that Thor only needed to walk in and be fawned over. Thor had always thought them equal, but this-- _this_ paints things in a different light indeed, gives truth to Loki’s words, and he wonders how he was so _blind_.

It takes weeks of reading and sorting through everything, spent in his own underused study going through dry records and minutes of meetings he had no part of (and some he did), comparing them to Loki’s own notes (begins to realize that half of his brother’s appearance of knowing everything was _recording_ everything). Vali, he finds, knows the library better than most, and he seems to eat more if he has been able to help in some way, so Thor enlists his help when he can. By the time he is done, he feels as if he never knew Loki at all, and mourns that Loki never spoke to him of this, and more, mourns he would not have listened if Loki had.

At the least, he can pick up where Loki left off. Not in the way Loki worked--Thor might understand it now, but Loki’s subtlety does not suit him--but if there is one thing he has learned, it is that he does not _need_ to work the way Loki does, because people will listen to him just because he speaks. Because they love him, unconditionally, as they never could quite love Loki.

As they loved Narfi, once.

(But it was not Narfi Loki worried over, was it? It was Vali, and Thor sees it _now_ , all the ways Loki saw his own childhood mirrored in Vali’s, and the careful shaping to change things.)

XXX

Thor would not call things good.

He still expects to run into Loki in the hallways, still expects his brother (and they _are_ brothers, blood or no) to laugh at him when he makes a fool of himself, still expects to find him leaning over Vali’s shoulder with a soft smile on his lips.

It feels a little like living with a ghost.

But Vali eats most days (not enough, but multiple days in a row _is_ a victory of sorts), sometimes will wander out alone to find his friends (a handful, and Thor takes note of their parents; in that, he mimics Loki as closely as he might), and if silent at least is willing to converse in body language. And though he is not near as competent as Loki was, Thor _is_ better at navigating all the politics of court, at paying attention outside himself, and managing to stop and _think_ (even if his temper sometimes still gets the best of him from time to time).

Things are not good, but they _are_ , which is far more than he ever expected them to be.


	4. Loki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, hello again~ So glad to hear from all of you last chapter, and thank you _again_ for sticking around on this one. :3 
> 
> The plan is for the future chapters to stick to this smaller chunk formula. It should keep me from getting into the same corner I kept running into, and let us proceed a bit quicker.
> 
> **warnings:** self-harm, trauma, eating issues

_“I swear to you, I will bring him back.”_

_Vali nods, eyes slipping away. Thor catches sight of blood; Vali’s fingers worry at a cut on his forearm, smearing red across the flesh._

_Afraid that this will all turn out to be a dream, Thor thinks, and he understands the feeling all too well._

_“Vali,” Thor says. Vali looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, head tilting and hair falling across his face. “You are not at fault for any of this. I will return as soon as I am able. I promise you.”_

_Vali nods again sharply._

Thor studies his brother over the tesseract, and is met with an angry gaze in return. Sharp, brittle, _vicious_ ; it is not one Thor thought to see directed at himself again.

This is not what he expected, nor what he wishes Vali to see. He hopes that Hilda at least has the wisdom to wait; theirs will not be a glorious homecoming, a welcoming of the long-dead prince who (or so the stories passed in Asgard say) gave his life for his kingdom’s safety. No, this will be much quieter.

It is not difficult to activate the tesseract, taking them back to the shattered remnants of the Bifrost. There are people there, but Vali is not among them, and Thor gives thanks to whoever had the foresight to avoid that. This is not how Thor wants his nephew to see his father.

XXX

Thor does not question that Loki would try to hurt him. He’s had far too long to reflect on what has passed—he did mourn, despite what Loki might suggest otherwise—and supposes he is only surprised that it took so long.

Once, he would swear Loki would never try to hurt Vali. But...

He doubts.

The man he has brought home is vicious, cruel, and refuses to say anything not aimed to rile those who try to question him. He tried—tried, but not very well, not the way Loki would have—to take over a realm.

Thor goes with those who question—with their parents (disowned, soon as they walk in, with a sneer and poison-laced words) and the lords and ladies who are on the council meant to advise Thor one way or the other (made up of people that Thor hopes know Loki better than he did, old allies and enemies in court alike). Thor does not talk, and he does not try to reason. When Loki needles, tears and hisses and Thor finally feels his temper near snapping, he leaves.

He knows that everyone is waiting on him. To speak, to defend or to condemn, to do _something_.

Thor does not.

He doubts, and he thinks.

Each day, he returns, and when Vali glances up at him, he says,

“Not today, little one,”

and Vali looks away again, a hand rubbing at his forearm.

XXX

It is late, and Thor cannot sleep for the thoughts that crowd his head.

And in the midst of it all, Loki smiles, eyes glittering, and not a word breathed about his son.

Thor paces through the halls, sorting through what he has seen and heard, what others have suggested.

He thinks of a flash, to distract, and an illusion he has always fallen for.

Perhaps this is not so different.

XXX

"Do you understand?" Thor asks, looking down at Vali.

Vali worries at the edge of his shirt, tugging a strand loose.

"You do not have to do this," Thor reminds him. "I can find another way."

Vali nods, eyes skimming over the room, hands twisting and tearing, shifting on his feet. He looks for all the world as if he might spring into the air, change to bird and fly away.

"Little one," Thor says and Vali looks up at him, mouth setting in a line and nodding. His hands still tear at his shirt, pulling another thread free, but his chin is up, shoulders set back.

XXX

It's very simple.

Most of his plans are.

XXX

"If it isn't the mighty Thor," Loki says as Thor enters, sprawled upon a couch reading. "Come to stare broodily and breathe heavily some more?" Loki smiles sharply, not glancing up at his broth—at him. Let him wait—a pity he has not been able to rile Thor, but then it seems much has changed while he was away.

“I have someone who wishes to see you.”

He is not expecting Thor to actually _speak_.

“What half-whit has decided to try and convince me to spill all my terrible secrets today?” he asks, glancing up, and pauses. He closes the book, sitting up, searching over the boy at Thor’s side. “Who... Vali?” He glances at Thor, then to the boy again. “What trick is this? This is poorly thought out, even for you.”

It _cannot_ be Vali—his Vali is soft curves and softer smiles, always nibbling at something and fingers stained in ink.

“No trick,” Thor says.

“Lies,” Loki says, because his Vali does not stare at him as if half-afraid ( _except the once, jerking back from touch_ ), has never looked so guilt-stricken ( _except with tears spilling down his face, hands over his mouth_ ).

Thor shrugs.

“You should go,” Thor says to the boy, “it seems I was mistaken. I am sorry—”

“ _Wait_ ,” Loki says (pleads-begs- _wants_ )(because _what if_ ). Both look at him.

“Come here,” Loki says, more gently.

“Go on,” Thor says.

The boy—Vali, oh, how he wants it to be Vali, and how he desires this be a _trick_ because he barely _recognizes_ him—comes over, a hand twisting at the hem of his shirt, eyes slipping up to meet Loki’s own.

“Hold out your hands,” Loki says.

The boy flinches—small, near unnoticeable—and holds his hands out, palms up. Loki takes them, examining, feeling ill. There is blood staining the fingertips of his left hand, but beneath that, ink—faded and nearly gone, but ink nevertheless.

Loki glances up, and realizes the boy— _Vali_ —is crying, shivering and staring at Loki as if afraid he might vanish. Loki swallows, glancing down at his hands and Vali’s held within them, runs his thumbs over the palms, and turns them over.

Blood. There is blood stained along the back of Vali’s hand, and as he pushes the sleeve up, he freezes.

“Oh Vali,” he whispers, “what is this?”

Vali does not answer, looking down and away, and Loki thinks _of course_.

“This is how you knew,” he says, voice thick in his throat.

“Yes,” Thor says.

A network of scars, and a few cuts that are just scabbed over—but _his_ Vali would not, would he? Vali hates (hated?) pain, had hated to learn this spell, and to use it so frequently—

“ _If any of you ordered this_ —”

“No. _Vali_ did this, of his own choice.”

“Vali?”

Vali nods, shoulders curled inward and refusing to look up, hair half-falling in his face.

Loki does not know what to say.

“He won’t speak.”

Loki glances to Thor.

“He hasn’t, since—since then.” Thor’s face tightens for a moment, eyes damp. “So you know,” he explains, “that he is not ignoring you.”

"What?" He asks, looking to Vali, convulsively squeezing his hand. Vali is watching him, even if out of the corner of his eye, and Loki thinks back over this short time, trying to find a word, a sound, anything to disprove Thor—Vali might not be given to _loudness_ but he _talks_ , quiet and slow, sorting out the words to contain what he feels.

“Why do you tell me this? Why bring him now?” He swallows, thinks of plans and the endless prying for a reason _why_ when his every reason to claw his way back is before him. "Do you think I will—"

“I do it for him,” Thor says, fierce in a way Loki does not recall him ever being about his children before, “because he deserves his father once more. And for me, because I needed to know how far you have changed. Not for you.”

“Ah, there is the selfish Thor I once knew,” Loki says, knowing the words lack venom. "And a little manipulation, how novel—"

“Stop,” Thor says. “Vali.”

Vali looks over at his unc—Thor.

“Would you like to stay here, or would you prefer to come back with me?”

Loki stares at Thor, lips parting. As if it is that easy, as if Thor had no desire beyond this, as if there are not strings attached, as if the _stupid fool_ can simply leave Vali with him, as if he _trusts_ him not to vanish now he has what he wants despite _everything else_.

Vali steps closer, brushing against Loki’s leg, and whatever Loki was going to say dies on his tongue, forgotten. He stares at his son, at the sharp lines, at how _thin_ he is, at the sorrow and guilt in his eyes, the way he worries his lips and a hand pulls threads from the hem of his shirt, feels the scars beneath his fingertips where he still holds Vali’s wrist, and he thinks _what if I had taken longer to return?_

“ _Unelmoija_ ,” he whispers, reaching a hand up to cradle Vali’s face.

XXX

He does not feel as if he can sleep.

Not because he is not tired—he is that, so very _tired_ , as he has not been in years. He feels as if he has walked _universes_.

(And perhaps he has; he is yet unsure how far he fell, only knew he needed to return, an apology left to make).

Vali clings to him, fingers twined in his clothes and pressed close, curled tightly against his chest. Loki runs his fingers through his hair (thinner now, no doubt a result of how little he must eat), and he watches.

This feels half dream. Perhaps all dream. In a moment, he will wake, and he will be light years away, so far that even when he bleeds there will be no tug to guide him home.

(So far he cannot be sure Vali yet lives.)

He hums, to keep himself awake. Something old, and soft, and he watches how Vali relaxes at the song, one he has heard since a babe, looking for the first time at _peace_.

It is a start. 


	5. Loki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's this week's post darlings~ Short, but sweet. Ish.
> 
> It sets us up nicely for next chapter. Oh next chapter. Sigh. I'm looking forward to sharing that one.

He should not allow this.

Vali shifts where he sleeps; Loki quiets his thoughts. Hand moving before he is entirely aware, he runs fingers through Vali’s hair and his son stills with a soft sigh.

It is the most noise Loki has heard his son make since his return.

Loki should not allow this (it is not healthy, it will do nothing but make things worse in the long run), and yet he does not move.

XXX

Loki would cut all ties with Asgard, but for Vali. He mentioned, once, the idea of leaving—that first morning, when Vali woke next to him.

Vali had blanched, ghostly pale. He did not understand; of course not. When had he ever known else but Asgard? What did he know of the wrongs done Loki, and what did he care, when all he knew was here? (How could Loki cause him yet more heartache?)

(If Loki had insisted, he could have stolen out with Vali, but…)

Not a week after Thor left Vali with him, Thor returned with an offer. Loki would have denied him out of spite, would have snarled and torn at the weaknesses Thor yet has so exposed, but for Vali.

(Vali who sees Thor as his uncle. Vali Thor cared for as _Vali,_ fiercely protective in a way he had not seen Thor be for any of his children before.)

He accepted Thor’s terms, such as they were.

( _Apparently_ all anyone knew of his time as king was that he had ended a war that Thor had started; a hero. The thought makes his lips twist in near snarl.)

XXX

Once, Loki knew all there was to know about Vali’s behaviour, his likes, his dislikes, what distressed him and what brought him joy.

He finds Hilda setting out food—near an excess, certainly more than any who would stop by this wing of the palace, let alone would be invited in—and she glances up at him as he stops.

“Prince Vali won’t eat,” she explains, smoothing the table cloth. “Not unless he thinks no one will notice the food gone.”

(Vali will not eat. Vali does not speak. Vali avoids looking at anyone’s eyes, Vali does not reach first, Vali flinches, Vali is—)

“I see,” Loki says, voice even as he can make it. His eyes wander away from her, looking for Vali. Turns, but Vali is not in this room.

(Where it cannot be seen, he digs nails into his palms, blood leaking over the skin, tugs—

—and there is an answering tug, not far away.)

He nods ( _breathes_ ) and goes to his study.

XXX

His mind twists and turns and devours itself—

(the Chitauri and Thanos, ensuring that they never touch his child (for they have thought it and thought alone is enough to make him want to rend the skies and make them burn), creating a place on Midgard to stay with Vali (Vali would like Midgard) but the matter of the Avengers, how to handle them, how to deal with the Chitauri without leaving Vali behind or vulnerable (or both), Vali’s love of Thor to tie him here, how to help Vali, how to undo what Loki’s actions have wrought, how to—)

—and he goes to Thor and offers to rebuild the Bifrost. To take over the reconstruction. Thor agrees, surprised but grateful (for it is true, those tasked with it are good at what they do, but they are not _Loki_ , and it makes Loki smile). It is a distraction, to put those thoughts to rest.

XXX

Vali is silent on his feet. Twice, Loki was not even aware Vali was following until he caught sight of him by chance; the third time, he took Vali's hand. The fourth, the fifth.

The sixth, he knelt before his son, framed his face with his hands, and said, "You can touch, Vali" even as it near broke his heart he must, that Vali would not otherwise.

(Surely as Vali drifts in the breeze of his passing, Loki's eyes rove over the spaces for his son, drawn as the oceans are pulled by the moon.)

Vali slips into his study without Loki noticing, takes his hand; Loki does not start, only steps closer, other hand still sketching and bending light on the air for his plans to reconstruct the Bifrost.

XXX

He should not allow this, but he cannot sleep without Vali’s weight dipping the bed beside him, hands tangled in his overlong hair.

He should burn whatever weaknesses make him wake when Vali twitches in his sleep. That tug him from ill-dream at the slightest hint of a stir in the room, how he wakes with wide-blinking eyes and tensed for fight (wakes _vicious_ , _furious_ , arms cradling and tightening—)

He wakes, eyes sharp in the dark as he examines the room. Nothing. Nothing. Only an owl, still calling distantly from outside.

Vali sleeps, face slack, forehead pressed to Loki’s chest.

Loki closes his eyes and presses his face to Vali’s hair, curling around him.

(Soon, he will deal with these threats that still ring in his head, that echo and clash, _soon_ , already the beginnings of a plan twisting to life in his head.)

He sleeps.


	6. Vali

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm. This chapter.
> 
> I really like this chapter.
> 
> And I do believe next chapter will wrap up part 1, if it continues as it has been. We shall see.
> 
> Warnings: eating disorder

When he reaches for Father, Father reaches back.

(Does not flinch, does not stare horrified at his hands, does not pour disgust. Has told him he _can_ touch.)

He runs his fingers over the callouses on Father’s hand as Father works, trying to focus on what it is Father is saying —because he does that, he will talk to Vali about what he does —but mostly he lets the sound surround him, lets himself get lost in the feel of Father’s hand, the warmth of him.

(And quiet, quiet, in his head, around him, twining around his heart, is _warmth_ , is love, _love_ , Father’s emotions rich and tangled and he never thought he would feel the particular ocean depths of Father’s emotion again, thought it lost because of _himself_ , and it nearly makes him want to cry for relief that Father doesn’t _hate him_ for what he did.)

“ _Unelmoija_?” Father asks, note of concern riding high and electric in the air.

Vali looks up at him, and grips his hand more tightly. He doesn’t smile, not quite (has not managed it yet, because surely he’s dreaming).

Father smiles at him, squeezing his hand back.

XXX

“Come along,” Father says, and Vali follows.

(Of course he does; he feels almost like a shadow, sometimes, but then Father turns and grabs his hand and he knows he’s not, that he’s not dreaming, that Father isn't a ghost like the young boy ( _Narfi_ , Father said) he sees glimpses of sometimes.)

They go outside, to the courtyard, then the stable yards. Father’s horse is waiting for them, black and gleaming and red-eyed, tossing its head and stamping a foot. Father sets him up on the saddle, then swings easily up behind him, one arm resting around his waist. Vali lets one hand rest on Father's, other twining in the horse’s mane. He cranes his head back to look at Father.

Father doesn’t quite smile —he never does where anyone can see but Vali —but he does tighten his grip for a moment.

Once they are out of the city, the emotions that cling to Father’s skin shift. Not relax, no, Vali has not felt Father relax, but he eases. The farther they get from the city, passing by fields high with grain, the more Father eases, so that Vali is nearly overwhelmed with _love_ , a taste very near _happiness_ drifting in Father’s wake, and he drinks it deep, pulls it it close and lets it fill his heart.

(because he can tell, he can _tell_ , here, away from everyone, that Father _doesn’t_ hate him, not at all, and for the very first time since _before_ he feels _happy_ even if he is still at fault, and he knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help it, because _Father_ is the only one who matters, and if Father doesn’t hate him then _perhaps_ …)

He squeezes Father’s hand again tightly. Oh so carefully, he pulls Father’s joy and weaves it with his own as they ride, because he won’t speak (not _yet_ ), but he wants to _show_ him, because he is so shaken and relieved and Father doesn’t hate him—

“A gallop, _unelmoija_?” Father asks

Vali leans his head back and he grins; it is wide, and it nearly hurts, stretches in a way he had forgotten. He tugs the horse’s mane as he nods, kicks his feet against its shoulders, and Father chuckles. Readjusts, then leans forward, digs his heels in, and the horse bolts.

The air rushes past them, and Vali lets go of Father’s hand around him yet to twine it in the horse’s mane, hanging on, chest feeling white and full to bursting, and if he could, he would laugh, joy bright through him like the sun through the air.

XXX

As it happens, Father has a destination in mind. Vali blinks at the cabin set upon the plain, because he knows it is supposed to be a full day’s ride from the city and it is not even noon yet. Father is much better than Vali at twisting space, though, and he supposes if Father had done something while they rode, he would not have noticed it.

He can hear the stream nearby over the stones as Father helps him down from the horse, and it is not too long after Father is going inside.

Vali follows. He expects the place will not be well-looked after, but as he walks in he realizes Father must have taken care of it before coming, that this was planned. Father always has a plan; it is comforting that this is still the same. Already Father is pulling ingredients from somewhere, vambraces left discarded on the table and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Here, Vali,” Father says, then picks him up and sets him on the counter next to where he is working. A hand flicks against the stove, springing it to life, and from where the oven is, he catches smell of heat.

Father’s hands are sure, and Vali watches, hands on his lap. He loves watching Father work, how he pulls a pot from wherever they go when he doesn’t need them, the hiss of butter in it before he adds the vegetables. Flour and butter take their place on the counter. A pastry dough, he thinks, as Father cuts the butter into the flour, chill radiating from his hands as he works quickly. Father does not talk, and Vali does not feel the silence like it might cut him, tightness pressing his throat as words try to claw their way out.

This is easy, relaxed, and he holds it close because it has been so _long_ since he felt like this.

“Taste,” Father says, offering him a cloudberry.

Vali tenses, biting his lip, eyes darting up to Father’s briefly. Father does not look annoyed, or happy. He only looks at ease.

(It will be alright, it will be alright, it is _Father_ offering this to him, and he still doesn’t deserve food, not really, but Father isn’t dead and it is _Father_ who offers it to him, Father thinks it is alright, so _this_ is alright—

“I need to know if you find it too sour,” Father adds. Patient.

Vali takes the berry, puts it in his mouth, and tries to hide how his hands shake.

“ _Unelmoija_?” Father says, soft, hand brushing Vali’s knee.

Vali looks up, caught, still rolling the berry around his tongue. He feels almost sick.

“It is alright, Vali,” Father says, and he smiles. “I promise.”

(Father always tells the truth and he always keeps his promises; these two things are true, before everything else.)

He presses the cloudberry to the roof of his mouth. He lets himself taste it (because Father needs him to), juice rich and wet and it must be the first time he has _tasted_ what he has eaten since before. Sweet, ripe, like summer caught within the orange berry; his eyes are wide as he swallows, and Father is smiling when he looks at him.

(Father is happy, _joyful_ , it is thick in the room, trails his touch in whirlpools and currents, lights up his eyes.)

  
“Well?” Father asks. “Too sour?”

Vali shakes his head.

When Father offers him a handful of the cloudberries, he takes them, holds them in his hands. As Father goes back to the food, Vali eats them like a secret.

XXX

When they eat, they eat outside.

Father hands him food, asks him questions, a dizzying array of questions, so sometimes he has to sample a few times before he can nod or shake his head. Asks so many questions that he forgets he should feel guilty for eating in the attempt to answer all of them.

Father smiles, bright curve like the moon, and he forgets he shouldn’t when Father hands him another cloudberry pastry without any questions at all.

XXX

Father is faster than him, though he pretends he isn’t long enough that Vali is skidding down the bank by the stream and splashing across before Father catches up to him. Vali twists away from his grip, leaves the stream coated in ice where he crossed and Father lets out a yelp as he slips and ends up sitting in the middle of the stream, laughing.

Vali crouches, not quite in reach, and grins, holding a hand up to block the water Father splashes at him.

“Clever,” Father says. “I don’t remember you able to do that. What else did you learn?”

Vali hesitates, licks his lips, then walks over to where Father is still sitting in the water. He has to touch for this to work, but.... Surely this will make him happy, keep him happy? Surely it will be alright. Father doesn’t mind when he touches now, has told him he can.

Father still smiles slight, star-glimmer and dream. Relaxed, even as the tips of Vali’s fingers stain blue, other hand resting on Father’s shoulder (as if to steady himself).

(It makes this easier, to slip between the cracks of his emotions, guard down, and _create_ )

“What’s this?” Father asks, then he grins, voice delighted, _proud_. “An _illusion_ , you figured it out? On your own?” Vali does not let himself blink where he stares at his hand and the bird barely created in his palm. He makes a quick gesture; Father chuckles, reaches out to touch ( _there_ , Vali thinks _, there there_ , in the moment Father’s fingers should pass through, and he _twists_ , sparks, _creates_ in Father’s head touch where there is none), and Father inhales sharply. It’s easier, as Father touches, as he expects to touch, the spell taking hold so Vali does not have to focus so, so some of the bird’s movements are what _Father_ expects.

“How?” Father asks, curious, demanding, pulling a wing wide as the bird squawks, prodding and trying to find the seam. Trying to find the flaw —like how Father’s illusions all can be passed through, how they shimmer with the bent light they are made of.

Vali hesitates.

(He remembers Father’s anger when he once pushed against another boy’s emotions; Father always told him to take care of other’s minds, and if he shows him, if he _does_ , Father will be angry—

“Vali?” Father asks, suddenly focused on him.

Vali bites his lip, then lets his hand slip from Father’s shoulder, so they aren’t touching at all.

The bird vanishes.

Father is _smart_ —it doesn’t take him long to figure out what Vali did, and once he does _fear_ blooms sharp on the air. Vali flinches and goes to step back, but then Father is pulling him into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest, breath short and choppy against Vali’s hair. Fear; then, dazed, Vali realizes it is fear _for_ him.

“Do not ever show anyone else how you do that,” Father says, commands (behind the words, under them, _danger and dangerous, they were dangerous, a danger to the realms_ , high note of _they will take him for this, already whisper of taking him_ , and pounding underneath, wordless and tangled _anger-defend- **love**_ ). “Do you understand, _unelmoija_?” and Vali nods, gripping tight to Father (because Father is not angry at _him_ for sliding into his head, not like Vali thought he would be, and he never remembers Father being so _afraid_ beneath his anger).

Long minutes later, Father finally lets him go, helps him stand, then stands himself, taking his hand and leading him out of the stream. Moments later, they are dry. Vali feels awful, feels the sweet cloudberry joy of the afternoon ruined for his trick, for his attempt to make Father proud for what he finally learned while Father was away.

But once they are back at the cabin, sitting on the blanket they had lunch on, Father asks Vali to show him again, more slowly.

Then again, and again. It’s harder, with Father paying attention, but not much, and he finds himself making snakes and birds, plants growing and twining over their feet (Father smiles, Father _preens_ , _pride_ around him like the moon’s glow). It feels like a lesson, and his worry starts to fade as Father suggests different things for him to try, until there is a breathless moment he manages to hold the illusions without touching Father. It feels like _before_ , and though he is tired by the time the sun begins to sweep low and Father suggests they go inside, he is _happy_.

(This isn’t a dream. Father does not hate him. Father loves him and is proud of him and this _isn’t a dream_.)

XXX

After dinner (he does eat, a little, though he still feels full from lunch, but Father handed it to him, and he grabbed tight to the joy it gave Father), tucked into bed and Father sitting next to him, Father begins to tell him a story. He tells about a bear and a fox and an eagle and a little boy (odd, like Vali), his thumb rubbing against Vali’s palm as he talks.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, and he doesn’t know what wakes him, only that Father is there, smoothing his hair down, voice soothing, and he falls asleep once more with a sigh, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey  
> hey
> 
> i made a portrait for kid vali~ here you [go](http://fel-as-in-tumbld.tumblr.com/post/61005643293/vali-2013-art-by-me-please-dont-remove)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi. Look I know we've been away for a while, and I'm very deeply sorry. It's such a shame, because this chapter has been half written for so long.
> 
> But.
> 
> It _is_ done now, and I thought it would make a marvelous thing to put up during the posting I'm doing for Yule--so here we are, on the 7th day of yule posting. 
> 
> Enjoy~

"Loki needs to be told."

Silence.

"Thor," Fandral says, "are you sure that is _wise_?"

"And have my brother find out by other means?" Thor asks, eyebrow raised and bitter smile on his lips. "No, my friends, he will be told tonight."

"Do you even know where he is?" Sif asks, derision just barely hidden. In times past, Thor would not have noticed it. He meets her snort with a gaze, even and flat and storm.

"You would do well to remember that he is raising my heir, Sif, and him being difficult to find is as much a safety as being raised in the heart of the palace," Thor says, staring her down, noting how her weight shifts. "I know where he is; that is all that matters."

"If he is not lying--"

"Whether he is lying or not is no concern of yours, _Lady_ Sif."

Sif's mouth tightens, but she nods her head, breaking eye contact.

(Thor worries about Sif, about chasms grown deep since Loki's return and Thor's decision. If Volstagg and Fandral spoke true, it was she who first spoke of confronting Loki while he was king. As much as Thor would like to forget, what his friends did for him was treason, and it makes him ache that he will need to remind them of rank he has so often laid aside among them.

For if they are willing to betray Loki for what Thor has pieced together was only Loki's particular way of doing things, what little will Thor do that will make them do the same to him?)

"He has a fair point," Fandral says quietly, glancing at Thor as if he knows what he is thinking. "The dark elf delegation arrives in the hour. You are expected."

"Yes," Thor says. He could wait until morning but it sits ill with him. Loki has been restless, and he worries; as much as Thor is convinced his actions on Midgard were a sham, he suspects it has made whomever Loki betrayed most unhappy. The sooner Loki is made aware of a potential threat, the better, particularly one that very nearly made it past Heimdall--it gives less chance for him to find out another way, and think it intentionally hidden from him.

(Thor does not let himself dwell on the hope his actions will work to repair his relations with Loki.)

"I will handle it,” Thor says.

Xxx

He wakes, unsure what woke him.

(Here, he very nearly feels _safe_ ; he laid the wards around and in this home, wards that hum and sing and tug the air, that extend like roots and branches far past the house into the ground and sky so nothing and no one can come near without him knowing.)

There is, very distantly, thunder. Loki is only slightly less guarded as he makes his way to the door, opening it before Thor can knock.

For a moment, they simply regard each other.

(To his surprise, Thor does not assume he may enter, does not push his way inside.)

“Loki,” Thor says, “I have news.”

Thor has proven he’s not half so idiotic as to assume his presence is desired, and Loki well remembers that there was a delegation that Thor is meant to be dealing with. He waits another moment, then steps aside.

Xxx

Father is restless. Unhappy. Vali remembers waking the night before, remembers Father’s hand in his hair and drifting back to sleep--something has happened, but Father does not speak of it as he so often does his other plans. He is only paces, attention torn between Vali and what has happened.

(Vali remembers another time Father was restless; it makes him uneasy and without thinking his hands seek out Father’s.)

Xxx

This is too soon.

(Is it? Did he not simply lose track of time?)

It doesn’t matter--this is too soon; he did not expect that Thanos and his Chitauri would already be following, and so his plans are not quite finished. Close, but not quite; without his certainty his planning might well be useless.

(He cannot allow chance--was not intending to allow chance--in these, because he must keep Vali safe, must ensure his own victory so he can return.)

Vali takes his hand; Loki starts, glancing down at his son.

“Vali,” he says, smiling. Vali stares up at him, hand tight around his own.

He cannot afford sudden exits with no promise to return; he never could afford them, but that is a mistake he cannot undo, only repair.

(As much as Thor has changed, he does not trust to leave Vali with him; does not trust the rest of Asgard not to make things worse--what would stop them? They have no love for him, and never had.)

He will have to trust his planning. A plan mostly done is better than none at all; better to take control of the situation now.

Vali is still watching him through his lashes, one hand tugging at the hem of his shirt. Loki pushes his hair from his face, stills the hand trying to find a strand to pull free.

“ _Unelmoija_ ,” Loki says, smiling again. “Listen carefully. There have been some… _interesting_ developments while you slept.” His tone at least makes Vali relax, just barely, and his son gives a slight smile.

( _He only just got back_.)

Xxx

He hurries the last of the Bifrost construction along, so that he is not necessary for it’s completion; that, he would rather done entirely.

He checks and checks and _checks_ , but everything that he can do is done--the rest will not be hurried by him but by time.

(Vali follows his steps; Loki reaches for him without thought. A reminder--this is necessary. They will not stop because he wishes for more time, because he manages to flee for a time; better now and done with bargains he never intended to keep.)

Xxx

“Shall we?” Father asks.

Vali nods, pushing down on worry and anxiousness in favour of ice. He can’t let Father know how unhappy this makes him--Father has explained, keeps explaining.

“This is only for a short time.”

Green eyes deep and dark as dream stare unblinking, face blank. Controlled. This is necessary--he believes Father, catches ghost of night terrors that suggest it is as much for him as it is for Father.

“You will be well looked after.”

A slow blink, but otherwise no reaction.

“Is this acceptable?’

(He could say no. He could keep Father here.)

He nods.

Father presses a kiss to his forehead; boyish hands twitch slightly, then reach out. He breathes in scent of leather and sweat and fire as he is embraced, drinks emotions that twist tempest-like in Father: _love, defend, anger, rage, **love**. _ Basks in feeling of being _wanted_ , _treasured_ , before pushing away emotion and settling to stillness once more, cold and distance.

The love he tucks away, to examine and warm himself with later. This won’t take long, Father has _promised_.

(Father always keeps his promises.)

Father frames his face with both his hands, crouched before him. Father’s eyes are bright vibrant green; _tourmaline_ he thinks.

“I love you, _unelmoija_ ,” Father says seriously, and even with ice he tries shield himself with, he cannot stop the flood of warmth-light- _love_ focused entirely upon him in that moment, that makes Father’s hands feel too hot, that warps the air and wreathes it in gold.

He touches Father’s face.

_I love you_ he says with magic, because words might mean being noticed by someone else, because words are dangerous and he does not wish to hurt anyone with them ever again.

Father’s eyes are so very sad though he smiles. A last kiss is placed upon his brow, then things dissolve, familiar swirl of green and heat of Father’s magic twisting everything apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is, _finally_ , the end of part 1. Here's hoping I get along faster with part 2, yes? 
> 
> That said, I don't know when it will be ready. 
> 
> Hope you all are having a wonderful holiday season!


End file.
